


Christmas Miracle

by EASchechter



Series: On his Brother-in-Law's Secret Service. [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EASchechter/pseuds/EASchechter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt  “Supposing that John gives Mycroft a drama-free Holmes Christmas dinner, by asking Sherlock to behave as HIS Christmas present?”</p><p>This is part of the Secret Service continuum, and fits in to the year between Sherlock and John's wedding, and Jim Moriarty's return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Miracle

John stopped just inside the pub door and let the heat of the room sink into his cold bones. Not as bad as a winter spent in a tent in Kabul, but still bitterly cold for London. There was talk of snow...

"John!"

John turned and nodded, seeing Greg Lestrade sitting at a table off in the corner. He made his way over and sat down, and Greg waved to the waitress.

"Another pint for me, and one for my friend," he called. The pretty girl nodded and headed for the bar. Greg looked over at John and grinned. "So, how's the married man?"

"Freezing," John answered immediately. "Snow for Christmas, do you think?"

"Maybe. The weather forecasts are right half the time. Maybe we'll be able to have a snowball fight in Sussex?"

John frowned, hesitating only long enough to take a long pull on his just-delivered pint before asking, "Sussex?"

"You're not going?" Greg asked.

"Going where?" Sussex? What was in Sussex... oh. "Oh. No. You know Sherlock. He doesn't do Christmas."

"Violet seemed to think you both were going to be there."

"You've talked to Mum?"

Greg grinned. "When did you start that?"

"About a month ago. She was in London. We went out to the theatre and dinner. I asked her permission, and she insisted." John smiled. "Now, if she's invited us, this is the first I've heard about it."

"Why am I not surprised?" Greg leaned back and took a sip of his own pint. "Lucy and David are with their mum for the holidays. Mycroft asked me if I'd have Christmas dinner with the family. I figured, why not?"

"Especially since you'll probably be part of the family soon," John jibed with a grin, and was rewarded with a glare. Then Greg changed the subject.

"Thing is, I'm not sure what to get him."

"What, for Christmas?" John leaned back and considered it. "Yeah, he would be hard to shop for. What do you get the man who controls everything? And how the hell do you keep it a secret?"

"That's why I wanted to talk to you. See, I have an idea..." Greg leaned forward, and explained his plan. By the time he finished, John was grinning like an idiot.

"You know he'll probably see right through me?" he asked.

"I'm hoping enough of him has rubbed off on you that you can keep him in the dark."

John nodded and drank more of his beer. "Yeah, I think I can do it. I even know how to ask. All right. You owe me, you know."

Greg smiled broadly. "I'll make it up to you."

#

John let himself into 221B and started shrugging out of his coat. He refrained from announcing his arrival, because the last time he had, Sherlock had pointed out that there was no one else would could have both come in with the key, and who would have known to miss the two singing steps on the way up.

"How's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked from the kitchen table.

"Good. He's working on getting his nerve back up, I think." John walked into the kitchen, kissed the back of Sherlock's neck, then started making tea. "Sherlock?"

"I did already buy a Christmas present for you."

John turned around. "How could you possibly... never mind. You can tell me later. I want to ask a favor."

For the first time, John had Sherlock's complete attention; he turned in his chair to face John. "A favor?"

"Yes. Greg told me that there's going to be a family Christmas dinner in Sussex. Said that Mum seems to think we'd be there?"

"She did ask," Sherlock admitted. "She knows I don't--"

"I want to. First Christmas as part of the family, you know?" John turned back to the kettle and poured hot water into mugs. "I know you don't care for Christmas--"

"What gave you that idea?"

John turned back and leaned against the counter. "Let's see... you've thrown out every piece of tinsel and fairy light I've ever brought into the flat. You experimented on the last tree -- we still owe Mrs. Hudson for the fumigation, by the by. You growl every year from the first of December until Boxing Day. Nope, no idea why I think you don't like Christmas, Mister Scrooge."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the table. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Mycroft came home from Singapore on Christmas Eve."

John went hot, then cold. He swallowed and felt his face flush. "Oh, fuck. Sherlock--"

"You didn't know. I didn't tell you," Sherlock interrupted. "It was... five years? Yes, five years before we celebrated again. But it never was right, after that. So I decided I wasn't going to."

"Right," John muttered, running his fingers through his hair. He shook his head and sighed. "Right, and I'm sorry. Look, never mind. I understand now. We don't have to go anywhere. Maybe... I'll call Greg up. See if he has any cold cases, all right?"

"No. No, why don't you see if you can borrow a car? Rent one, perhaps?" Sherlock looked up.

"Sherlock, I don't want you to do this if it's going to hurt."

Sherlock smiled slightly, his lips tight. "It's important to you."

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Thank you, love. Ah... any... any word?"

"No." Sherlock scowled, slumping back in his seat. "Not a word, not a lead. Nothing. He's disappeared. There have been interesting developments, though. A smuggling ring in Budapest absolutely destroyed, and the ringleaders caught and convicted. They were dealing in blood diamonds from Liberia."

John nodded. "Saw that. Livvy thinks it was Jim, too."

Sherlock turned and asked, "Have you turned up anything else?"

"Livvy runs a search every other day, using the department computers. I'm not sure of her search parameters, but she knows Jim better than we do. She's come up with American drug runners found dead in Mexico, and something to do with the Russian mafia. I'm not sure what -- Doctor Kuryakin wouldn't translate it for me."

"Must have been quite bad, then." Sherlock nodded. He looked back down at the table, then back at John. "Car?"

"I'll make some calls," John said. "Thank you, love."

#

It was nearly a two-hour drive from London to the Holmes estate in East Sussex, and John had needed to pay close attention to the heavy Christmas Eve traffic for most of the drive. So it didn't really register until they were nearly there that Sherlock had not said a single word since they'd left the flat.

"You okay over there?" he asked, glancing to the left. Sherlock stared straight ahead and didn't answer.

"We could turn around--"

"No. No, I'm fine. It's supposed to snow. I've not been here in snow in years." Sherlock peered out through the windshield. "I've not spent any significant time here in years."

"What do your bees do, when it gets this cold?" John asked.

"If the hives are prepared properly, they can survive temperatures below freezing. They come together for warmth, feed on the stored honey and they move to increase their internal temperatures. I'll show you." Sherlock snorted. "Something else I haven't done in years. I miss my hives."

"Think we can get Mrs. Hudson to let you put a hive on the roof?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps. When we get back, I'll talk to her. Turn there."

A few minutes later, the car was coming to a stop at the top of the long driveway. John turned the engine off and looked at Sherlock. "Ready?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful, then shook his head. "No."

"May I ask another favor?" John asked.

"This one would be... what? For me to behave myself? To be boring?"

John grinned. "Well, I don't need to ask, then. But, no. Not boring. Never boring. Just... considerate. Think about it, Sherlock. This is hard for you. How hard is it for Mycroft and your Mum?"

"And what would you have me do?" Sherlock snapped. "Be cheerful and jolly? Ho, ho, ho, Happy Christmas?" John arched an eyebrow and waited, and Sherlock slowly calmed.

"No, love. I don't want you to be fake. What I want is for you to... not take it out on your family."

Sherlock frowned, sitting silently and staring out the window. "I..." Then he sat up. "We've been noticed. What's he doing here?"

John looked and saw Mycroft coming down the wide stairs, Greg a step behind him. "He'll be part of the family, too. Come on. And please..."

"I'll try." Sherlock got out of the car before John could say anything, and John scrambled out after him.

"Good evening, John," Mycroft called, sounding much more cheerful than usual. "Did you have a good drive?"

"Traffic was awful," John answered. "Thanks for the use of the car, though."

"You're welcome. Henry will bring it into the garage. Come inside. You're right on time; Mummy is just about to serve tea."

"Are we the last, then?" John took Sherlock's hand as they climbed the stairs.

"Livvy came down with us," Greg answered. "She took her last exams yesterday morning, and today slept the whole way here. Poor kid is working too hard."

"Slept?" Sherlock turned and looked at Greg. "Livvy slept? In the car?"

"Yeah."

Mycroft smiled. "Greg is an excellent driver."

"He must be," Sherlock agreed. "Well done, Lestrade."

Greg laughed as he reached the top of the stairs. "You can call me by my name, Sherlock."

"Right. Old habits. Greg, then." Sherlock tugged his gloves off and looked around. "Mummy is in the sitting room?"

"The front parlor," Mycroft corrected. Sherlock nodded and looked towards the house, the looked away . John glanced at him, saw him frown slightly and shake his head just a bit.

"Mycroft, we'll meet you in the parlor in a few minutes. I just need a minute to get washed up," John said, turning towards Mycroft. "Would you tell Mum not to wait on us?"

Mycroft looked thoughtful, and most pointedly did not look at Sherlock. "I'll let her know."

#

Behind closed doors, John made Sherlock sit on the bed and stood over him. "You're not all right. I can see it."

"I'll be fine. It's just..."

"Memories?"

Sherlock nodded, looking away. "I won't delete these. Not the ones about Father. I... don't have many. But they make this time of year harder."

John sat down next to Sherlock and leaned into his shoulder. "You were five, you told me. I'm surprised you remember anything."

Sherlock nodded and took a long breath. "Shall we?"

Hand in hand, they left the room, and Sherlock led them down to a room that John had been in only once, not long after the wedding. They were met by the smoky scent of lapsang souchong, mingled with sweeter notes of cinnamon and something herbal. Violet looked up in mid-pour and smiled before turning her attention back to her task.

"A moment, darlings," she said, then set aside the teapot and came around the table. "Sherlock, my dear, welcome home," she said as she hugged her youngest son. Sherlock smiled slightly, hugged his mother in return, then walked over to the window and looked outside. Violet shook her head and turned to John. "John, it's wonderful to have you this year. Happy Christmas," she said as she kissed his cheek.

"Thanks, Mum. Happy Christmas. Where is everyone?"

"Olivia was having a nap, and will be down shortly," Violet answered. "She's been burning the candle at both ends, working for the department and finishing her studies. Remind me of what you prefer? I remember you don't care for the lapsang."

"Whatever else you have," John answered. "I'd forgotten she was finishing. And Greg said she'd taken her last exams yesterday morning?"

"After having been awake since the day before yesterday, or so she tells me." Violet poured the tea and passed a cup to John, then looked at Sherlock. She poured a second up and brought it to the window, setting it down on the table there before taking Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, we'll be going down the hill at sunset. Will you come?"

Sherlock looked down at his mother and his lips twitched slightly. "I hadn't decided yet," he said after a moment.

"I understand."

The door opened, and Mycroft came in, carrying a tray. Greg followed behind him, and then Livvy, who laughed when she saw John.

"You're here!" she cried happily. She came over and hugged John, then went to Sherlock and hugged him. "I didn't think you would come."

"John convinced me," Sherlock answered.

"Is that what it takes?" Mycroft asked tartly. "How many years of Mummy asking you to come, of me and Olivia asking? We should have married you off sooner."

Sherlock turned, his eye blazing. Then he stopped, looked at John, and turned back to the window. He said nothing.

"Mycroft, do stop baiting your brother," Violet said firmly. "Today of all days."

Mycroft straightened and nodded. "I'm sorry, Mummy."

"I'm not the one to whom you need to apologize," Violet murmured. Somehow, her voice carried clearly, and Mycroft frowned.

"It's all right, Mummy," Sherlock said without turning.

"No, no, it is not," Violet answered. "Not today. You two may bicker like a pair of old hens the rest of the year, but I won't have it today. Not when I have the both of you here for Christmas."

"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft said. "Sherlock--"

"It's all right," Sherlock repeated. "I... When did you say we'll be going down the hill?"

"Sunset."

"Right. I'll be back." Sherlock turned and left, and John had the distinct impression that something was chasing his husband. He waited a moment, then went to sit near Violet.

"Sherlock hasn't told me much," he said quietly. "What's down the hill?"

"The family plot," Violet answered, pausing to sip her tea. "It's become... something of a tradition. We bring a bit of Christmas down to Siger."

"Oh. Oh, I see." John licked his lips and looked down at his own cup. "And... sunset?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be off. I want to find Sherlock, make sure he's all right."

Violet nodded, then looked at him. "How did you convince him to come?"

"I asked him. I didn't know. And when he told me why he doesn't... celebrate, I told him to forget it. But he insisted... because it was important to me." John set the cup down on the table and rose. "If you'll excuse me?"

He hurried out of the room, and heard someone following him. He didn't have to turn to know it was Greg.

"You knew," he snarled over his shoulder. "You knew, and you didn't warn me."

"How was I supposed to know he didn't tell you?" Greg demanded.

John turned, his arms folded over his chest. "You've known him five years longer than I have. How long before he told you? Or did Mycroft tell you?"

Greg stopped, looked puzzled, then cursed softly. "You're right. Mycroft did tell me."

"Really? And I'll bet he told you that what he wanted for Christmas this year was a nice, family Christmas. Everyone together, just like when they were kids. Am I right?"

Greg went pale. "Yeah. In that many words, too," he said. "John... he set the both of us up, didn't he?"

"He's standing behind you. Ask him yourself." John turned on his heel and marched off, furious beyond words. He had a pretty good idea of where he'd find Sherlock, but he needed to take the long way around. Time to cool off.

Time to get frozen was more like it -- the temperature had dropped sharply since they'd arrived, and by the time John had walked around the enormous house to where Sherlock's beehives were kept, he was nearly frozen. Sherlock, somehow, didn't seem to even notice the cold; he was bent over one of the hives, looking at something.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't blame you," Sherlock said. He straightened. "Edmund needs to get more straw around these."

"We can tell him before we leave," John said. Sherlock turned and looked at him.

"Leave?"

"Back to London," John explained. "Look, this is my fault. I should have known Mycroft was trying to manipulate me. I just... I didn't think he'd use Greg like that."

"That's what he does."

"Yeah, but it's not what he should be doing. You don't do that to people you care about. And I don't want you to hurt any more. Let's go home."

Sherlock moved closer to John, looking into his eyes. Then he leaned down and kissed John gently. "We are home. Happy Christmas, Doctor Watson-Holmes."

"Happy Christmas, Mister Holmes-Watson. Are you sure you want to stay?"

"It will mean a great deal to Mummy if we do. And by now, she's had into Mycroft, so it will be entertaining to see him grovel," Sherlock answered, rubbing his hands together. "It's freezing out here. Let's go in and get warmed up."

"I can think of a way to get you warmed up--"

"If you come near me with cold hands, you'll sleep on the floor."

#

They slipped back into the parlor, and were met by silence. Violet was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, her face a study in cold marble. Greg and Livvy were nowhere to be seen. The only other person in the room was Mycroft, who sat alone on a narrow couch.

"Sherlock, I believe your brother has something to say to you," Violet said as John closed the door. He hesitated with his hand on the knob.

"Should I go?"

"No," Violet said. "He has something to say to you as well, John. Mycroft, if you please?"

Mycroft rose, tucking his hands behind his back. He didn't look up, and John found himself reminded of a schoolboy who'd been roundly chastised. The image was surprisingly satisfying.

"Sherlock, I... was wrong. I should not have manipulated you into coming. I know this is hard for you... harder, I think, than for me." He drew himself up and looked at Sherlock. "I should have respected your wishes and left you alone. I apologize."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, his voice low and somber. "Now tell me why."

Mycroft flushed slightly. "I assure you, my reasons were entirely selfish."

"I'd expected that. Why, Mycroft?"

Mycroft went redder still, and when he answered, his voice was quieter. "I miss him, still. And... you resemble him. Far more so than I."

Sherlock blinked, looking more startled than John had ever seen him. "I do?" He looked at Violet. "I do?"

"You do," Violet answered. "You don't remember him, Sherlock?"

"I do," Sherlock said. "But apparently not enough. I didn't realize..." He turned and looked back at Mycroft. "So that was why you wanted me here?"

"That, and the fact that we are not complete without you," Mycroft replied. He shrugged and looked away. "I did not mean to cause you pain, brother. I am sorry."

Sherlock paused only for a moment before going to Mycroft and holding his hand out. "If you'd told me your reasons, I'd have come."

Mycroft blinked, staring at Sherlock's hand. Then he looked at Sherlock and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft."

John jumped when Violet touched his arm. "Let's let them alone a moment," she said softly. "There's still time before we go." She led him out of the parlor and closed the door.

"Does he look like his father?" John asked.

"Very much so," Violet answered. "You haven't seen Siger's portrait?"

"Not yet, no."

Violet smiled and took John's hand, leading him further into the house. She stopped outside a closed door and sighed. "This was his study. His haven, he called it. I don't come in here very often."

"Mum--"

"No, it's all right, John. Come inside." She opened the door and went in, turning on the lights as she did so. John followed her, looking around at the large, comfortable room. Leather couches, a large desk. Bookshelves. And, over the cold fireplace, a portrait. John stared for a moment.

"Good lord..."

"Yes, it is a very striking resemblance, isn't it?" Violet said fondly. "Except for the hair. That he gets from me."

John looked up at the wedding portrait. Violet, strikingly beautiful in her bridal gown. And beside her, looking soberly at the photographer... it was Sherlock. And yet, it wasn't. Siger had been heavier than his son, his face fuller. His hair had been straighter, and ginger. But the eyes were the same, the angles in the face...

"He was just Sherlock's age when we married," Violet murmured.

"It's extraordinary," John agreed.

"I wonder, sometimes, what Siger would have thought of his youngest as a man. I wonder... if Siger might have been able to help him through his difficulties. And I wonder what he'd have made of you." She smiled at John. "You've have been friends, I think. He'd have liked you, John."

"I hope so."

"I'm certain of that. Now, come along. They'll be looking for us."

"Too late," Sherlock said from the doorway. "May I come in?"

"Come and see, my dear." Violet held her hand out, and Sherlock came inside. He stood and looked at the portrait for a long moment, then spoke without turning. "The sun is setting. Edmund says that everything is ready."

"Then we should go."

#

They all bundled up against the cold, and Violet led the way down the hill and down a short path. Sherlock and Mycroft both carried lanterns, and John was glad that Edmund had laid out torches as well. He followed along the path, wondering what they were doing, until the path opened up into a clearing and revealed a small cemetery.

"This way," Sherlock said, his hand on John's shoulder. John nodded and followed, stopping finally in front of a polished black marble plinth. The carving was simple: Siger Axton Holmes. Date of birth. Date of death. And a single word -- Beloved.

Violet cleared her throat and spoke. "Well, here we are again, my very dear. Christmas eve. And this year, we're together. As much as we can be. It's been quite the busy year. But you know that. Happy Christmas, Siger. We wish you were with us." She turned, and John caught a glimpse of too-bright eyes as she took a basket from Mycroft. From the basket she took a wine-glass, a small bottle, and an orange studded with cloves. She set them down on the base of the plinth, filling the glass from the bottle and then leaving them. Then she stepped back, and Mycroft moved forward. He touched the plinth, nodded once, then stepped back to stand next to Greg. On Greg's other side, Livvy looked at Sherlock. He shook his head slightly, and she stepped forward and laid a rose next to the glass.

"Sherlock?" Violet asked.

"I'd... like to be alone, please," Sherlock said.

"Of course, darling. Don't stay too long. It's gotten colder."

Despite Sherlock's words, he refused to let go of John's hand as the others started up the path. When they were finally alone, Sherlock looked at John. "What do I do now?"

"Talk?" John suggested.

"Why? He's not here."

"Sherlock, in the past few months, I've learned that there are witches, vampires, time travelers, and demons. And a host of other things I can't even imagine. So why not spirits who come listen to their families at Christmas?" John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's fingers. "Go on. Talk."

"I don’t know what to say."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Sherlock scowled, then stepped forward and trailed his fingers over the stone. "I... don't know what to say," he repeated. "This... feels completely unnatural. Talking to a stone. You're not even here. Why am I talking to a stone? I... I don't really remember you. I thought I did. But I realized tonight that I don't even remember your face. Not any more. I thought I could hold on to those memories, but they're gone. They're gone and I don't know how to get them back." Sherlock stopped, his hands fisted at his sides. "Maybe I should have come before. Maybe... if I had... I'd remember more." He looked at John and smiled, pointing at him. "This... this is John, Papa. Captain Doctor John Hamish Watson-Holmes. My husband. I've gotten married. Well, it's not actually marriage. They call it a civil union. But it amounts to the same thing. I hope you'd approve. Mummy said you would, because I was happy." He frowned, pacing. "We're not having children."

John coughed, teetering on the edge of hilarity. "We could," he offered. "We could adopt."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock called. "With our lives? It wouldn't be fair to a dog, let alone a child."

"True."

Sherlock stopped pacing and stood in front of the plinth. "I'll be back," he said. "I've been remiss. I should have come before. But I'll make it up. I'll be back."

He fell silent, and John moved up to stand next to him. He took Sherlock's hand in his, straightened, and saluted the stone. "Thank you, sir," he said. "For your son. I love him, and I'll do my best to make him very, very happy." He looked up at Sherlock to see his husband smiling at him, and tiny, white flakes gathering in short, dark curls.

"Let's go in," Sherlock murmured. "It's snowing." He looked back at the plinth and took a long breath, then nodded. "Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
